


Remember

by lokis_advocate



Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Character Death, Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-05
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-07 13:49:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/749225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokis_advocate/pseuds/lokis_advocate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Second in a series of ghost backstories. All ghosts were someone before they died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember

She had a crush on a boy.   
It was almost saddening, really, how much she devoted her time to him. She followed him from class to class. She wrote him letters. Gave him a valentine on Valentine's day. Wrote songs for him, and would play the songs into the night. If there was anything she loved almost as much as him, it was playing music.  
She wasn't shy, not by all means. She was a brave, crass, loud girl. But she was never noticed. Not by anyone. She would dye her hair fantastic colors, paint her eyes with dark makeup, wear outstanding outfits, but no one noticed her. No one even made fun of her. She simply passed through life, unnoticed. If she was lucky, she was “that one girl.”  
Then one day, she worked up the courage to ask him. Ask him anything, really; to the dance, to dinner, to a concert, anything that could qualify as spending time together. She even made him a cake; she spent all afternoon working on it. It was the cake of teenage desperation. She was so excited to get it to him that she forgot to turn off the oven.  
She knew his address. She claimed she had stumbled upon it one day, looked over the teacher's shoulder, peeked by accident, memorized it. It was a smart two-story that was painted as white as a soul. It took a few minutes of fervent knocking, but he finally answered the door. He was wearing the same thing he had been wearing at school-- a cool sweater and pants that probably cost more than her hairdo, which was cut into firey bleached flames. She glanced down at her own outfit of leather and spikes and hoped he would notice.  
“Who are you?” he asked. He leaned against the doorframe and brushed his butterscotch hair out of his eyes. She reeled.  
“Hey, wait, I do know you,” his face lit up for a moment. She glowed, opening her mouth to say yes, I'm her, I'm the girl, the girl that loves you, look, I even brought a cake. “You're that freaky goth girl that keeps following me. Why don't you buzz off, huh? Get a life. And get off my porch, you're freaky makeup is scaring the neighbors.”   
He laughed. He threw his head back and laughed at her as she dropped the cake she'd made, splattering the icing all over her boots. He laughed as he closed the door. He laughed at her and her crush.  
What was there to do? Where could you go when your heart has been ripped out of your chest and hung out to dry, when there are no words for the anguish and disappointment that you feel?  
Home was where she ended up. She opened her door and trudged upstairs, not noticing the rising smell of smoke. Finally, tears began to fall, running her thick makeup down her cheeks. There was nothing left for her. She had devoted her life to him.   
She fell asleep with smoke all around her. Her guitar was hugged to her leather-clad chest. He didn't notice the outfit. He didn't notice anything other than she was a freak.   
It was the only recognition she needed.  
The fire kicked down her door. It felled the floor and broke her bed. Her body burned to a crisp, still holding her guitar.  
She woke up in the rubble, but she wasn't hurt. In fact, she felt great. She felt new and she felt cold and full of rage and vengeance. The only knew one thing and that thing was to kill him. Kill the boy that had ruined her life.   
She didn't stop to notice the firetrucks or the fact that she could fly or that she was passing easily through solid objects. All she knew was the rage that flamed as bright as her hair.  
His house was a smart two-story painted as white as a soul. He was up in his bedroom when he saw her again, phasing through his walls with her guitar above her head.   
“Do you remember me now?” she screamed. “Do you remember me now?!” His answer was incoherent; it wouldn't have mattered anyway. There was nothing he could say that would stop the side of the guitar from colliding with his head.  
Her parents would come home to a smoldering mess. His parents would come home to murder with no culprit.


End file.
